


ride

by decidingdolan



Series: your words (my songs) [5]
Category: Sing Street (2016)
Genre: Deleted Scene, M/M, Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 00:27:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7913344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>drabble. they were drafting "To Find You" at the park. two boys, one bike. a ride that must have happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ride

“So I’m supposed to—“

“There’s one bike.”

“I could have gotten mine.”

“Your tires are flat.”

“Conor.”

“Eamon.”

 

He’s looking at you from his doorstep, feet still in the doorway. You stood, legs straddling the bike and hand motioning him closer.

“Come on,” you called, head tilted in the direction of the park (which wasn’t within a walkable distance, mind you), “Sun’s out. It’s a nice day.”

He took a step, poked his head out. Squinted at the sun. A finger pushed up his glasses, a hand snug in his denim jacket’s pocket, and you chuckled.

Your cheeks were tainted, vague pink patterns from Irish skin roasted by the sunshine. His were pure white, so pale you wondered how the sun hadn’t gotten to him before.

Finally he nodded, your fancy guitarist, and left the front door, his lips a straight line. He got onto your bike, guitar on his back. And once his arms were wrapped around your waist, did you understand his hesitation.

Pressure from those arms. The friction. Skin against jacket. You let your mind wander, and you found yourself imagining.

Thin arms, his bones. That skin. Warmth, holding you tight and hugging you close. Wrapped around your frame, pulling you to him. If it wasn’t fall. If there weren’t layers. If there’s no jacket, corduroy or denim. Just plain skin.

If.

You braked in front of a hole in the road. The bike skidded. His head collided with your back, his arms tightened their hold.

You gasped.

There was no long way round. It wasn’t Raphina. She was holding onto you, like this. Sweet scent of perfume and curiosity. You let her stay, you led her round. You’d let him be.

Behind you on the bike, like this. Close and breathing and muttering nonsense under his breaths. Eamon was rabbits and wood, vinyl records and paper. The stuff your life was made of. The stuff you’d ended up surrounding yourself with.

Rabbits became a common thing with him, a thing you’d gotten used to. He was humming a melody, and you tried tracing the chords in your head.

It’s hard to think of her like this, with him wrapped around you.

He poked you on the back then, a finger. “Eyes on the road,” he said. “Eyes on the road, Con.”

Funny thing to say, when he’s the distracting one.

Wish you could tell when you’d become so indecisive, when a heart’s so divided, uneven. She’d sat in his place, as he did, honey voice and striking up a conversation about your family. He’s right behind you, silent except for occasional melodic phrases, bass voice murmuring words to himself. And you’d prayed for a longer ride with him.

It’s over with her, maybe. You weren’t exactly sure.

You’re thinking of him, constant and often, his hands warm at your waist. She’s gone and crazy and labeled you a ‘schoolboy,’ so what was left there to dream.

He’s always been at your side, few words but full support. He’d smiled and promised you his availability, gifted you with his time. Maybe he loved music. Maybe he loved taking a crack at knocking your words into songs.

Or maybe he loved your company.

“Yea—“ you replied, “Yea, sorry. Sorry I wasn’t thinking of anything.”

Not really.

Anything but you.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so, so much for stopping by, reading and/or reviewing!
> 
> Your ever humble fanfic writer
> 
> x


End file.
